


Bedroom Hymns

by Dirtcore Dreams (NakedEye)



Series: Upon Request [12]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Body Worship, Cock Worship, Come Eating, Come Sharing, Consensual Underage Sex, Foot Fetish, Foreskin Play, M/M, Public Blow Jobs, Public Hand Jobs, Public Masturbation, Public Nudity, Public Sex, Raunch, Scent Kink, Scents & Smells, Slobber, Sloppy Makeouts, Smegma, Snowballing, Spit Kink, Sweat, Tongue Sucking, Wet & Messy, musk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 12:50:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17683793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NakedEye/pseuds/Dirtcore%20Dreams
Summary: Peter dreams of this club called Valhalla and a man named Thor inside of it. They're calling to him, waiting to deflower such a worshipful youth.





	Bedroom Hymns

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CerebralGanglion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CerebralGanglion/gifts).



> This was written for my good friend and kinksame companion. It's grossly overdue and for that, I apologize, but I hope the content makes up for it. Peter is a teenager in this and he does have sex with a grown man, so buyer beware. Also it's very sloppy and smelly and dirty, just the way we like it.

Valhalla was a legendary place, at least for the youth of the lesser boroughs in New York. Tittered whisperings of its reputation was passed from class to class, many aspects over exaggerated and some not thought of quite near enough. Everyone wanted to witness it first hand, wanted to come back, changed. 

For to pass through its doors was to enter your rite of adulthood. Inside was the life they all lived just on the outside of. The parties, the people, the substances and sex. If you could cheat the doorman, you had earned whatever lie in wait inside. 

This tale, the one that defined many a life of the teenagers who heard it, was second in notoriety only to that of an entity inside the bar itself. Thor. He had no other names. He came from nowhere, went nowhere. He existed in that bar as a creature that could reduce you to nothing, in many different ways. 

They said he was ten feet tall. They said his voice could shake the walls. They said he knew of lives he’d lived centuries before. He smelt like club sweat and fecund man, but tasted of ozone. He knew you, as soon as he looked into your eyes. 

Peter Parker was at the doors just for him. He was a small boy, a nervous boy. He didn’t have many friends, didn’t make much of a splash anywhere he went. But he felt that he was meant for this, laid up at night as the idea of it sang throughout his bones. 

_ Valhalla.  _

He sweat, dreaming of it-- would soak his sheets all the way through. He had hazy visions of a man with long, blonde hair. He sat in a throne on a balcony above it all, watching with an impassive face. He spoke in a tongue Peter didn’t know, filled his body with lightning. He creamed his pants again and again, the name stuck on the tip of his tongue. 

Thor was out there. Thor wanted him. It was the surest thing he’d ever known. So Peter did everything in his power to get to him. Made his own ID, called in favors from friends, lied to his Aunt May about a project across town. Some of it felt shitty, but he was a person possessed. Nothing would stop him from fulfilling these dreams, this destiny. 

And now he was here. There was no line outside the building, no huge neon sign. Peter could hear the music thumping from inside, see smoke feeding through the crack in the doors down the street. But it was otherwise unremarkable. There was nothing denoting that this might be a place where things rich and strange happened. Even still, he crossed into that smoke, moved like a spirit through it, floating across the ground and being tugged along by an unseen force. No one paid him any mind inside, all busy with their own quests. 

Shiny clothes, sweating bodies. The strong, caustic tang of alcohol trying to cut through the dense haze. The crowd moved as one, like an entity of its own, beholden only to the beat of the music hammering through peoples’ heads. They worshipped it. This cultured thrived on the thrum that shook their organs as they entered a trance, tried to be one with it. They tossed Peter from side to side, squeezed him tight and spat him out. 

By the time he made it to the stairs he reeked of beer, had sweaty strands of hair hanging in his face, had his shirt torn and a shoe missing. But it didn’t matter, because the man was here. The myth. His own, personal legend. He wasn’t atop any fancy scaffolding. He was seated in no throne. His hair was middling length, brown. He had a mustache that might seem skeevy, especially when paired with his bare feet in public. 

He sat, leaned against a wall, shirt open, drink and perspiration running down his body. His eyes though.  _ Those  _ eyes. They had seen through space and time to call him here. They peered into his body and knew things about himself, that even Peter hadn’t yet known. They were a beautiful, clear blue, but held such smoldering warmth. They looked him over slowly, dragging across each and every inch. Their touch was as physical as any hand and Peter quivered beneath them. 

This dirty man sat up a little straighter, spread his thighs even wider, let a hand travel up his sticky torso as he took this newcomer in. Peter didn’t care that he wasn’t exactly what he’d dreamed of. Thor had come to him in his dreams. A God beyond his human comprehension was reaching out. This man before him was simply an avatar, the latest iteration of him made flesh. He stared at Peter and his mouth ticked up in the smallest smirk. 

So the boy went to him. He stank of the swill that soaked his tongue, the sex he clearly hadn’t washed off himself, the musk that had steeped into his skin for days. His hands were clumsy, but so big and strong-- everywhere they groped Peter they covered him completely. An entire side of his chest. Around his whole arm. The both of them circling his waist. He spoke in a language that was harsh, but tripped and flipped and danced off his tongue. 

Peter dove forward to suck at it, not caring much for whatever things he was trying to say. The mustache tickled and itched at his lips. Unprepared, the man was coated in cheap drink, his own spittle. It was sticky and sloppy and it made Peter squirm in pleasure. Thor wrapped one big arm around him, hauled him closer, dragged a tongue across his mouth and cheeks like a dog lapping at crumbs in his bowl. 

They moaned into each other, bodies dipping and arching in unison. Peter tangled fingers through his dirty hair, opened his mouth as wide as he could get it, pulled Thor closer and closer, desperate to be devoured. 

His companion seemed all too happy to grant that wish. He stuck a hand down the back of Peter’s pants, gripped his little ass with greedy fingers, digging into his crack and searching for his hole. He chewed at Peter’s lips, sucked on his tongue, mashed their noses and cheeks and pulled away with strings of spit connecting them, only to leave his mouth open and panting, drooling down onto Peter’s face, spackling him in lurid lust. 

Peter felt like an animal in his wake. Isn’t that what a human would be to a God? Like a mindless dog going through its rut. But he took no offense to that, suffered no wound in his pride. Instead he reveled in it, found his chains unshackled. There was no performance for him to put on, no anxieties to have to try and wrangle. He was a brood beast for this erotic power, and his only directive was pleasure. 

So he wriggled out of Thor’s lap, fell to his knees on the sticky floor. He couldn’t break eye contact as he rubbed his hands over those thick, denim clad thighs. Thor chuckled at him, made no move to wipe his debauched face, just slumped again and reached for his drink with one hand, the other groping his fat bulge as he watched. 

Peter’s breath stuttered as he lowered himself down and down until he was practically in a full body bow, face almost touching the floor. And then he kissed Thor’s feet. Sweet, gentle, reverent pecks place on filthy, smelly toes. Again and again. Just little presses of his lips, then lingering, warm kisses. Soon open mouthed, wet tongue dancing across the thin hair and sour grit. Eventually he was licking them, suckling at his ankle, nursing his long, dexterous toes. Peter pressed his face to the grimy soles, dragged teeth across sturdy heels, huffed at the cheesy stench clinging in every crevice and mewled for more. 

Thor took his cock out, amongst this crowd of people that didn’t seem to care. It was fat and top heavy, not unlike a cobra flaring its hood. Peter had seen no cocks except his own, and marveled at the uneven shape of it, the way the head was disproportionately small on top, how it drooped beneath its own weight spun strings of precum like silken sugar between the tip of it and Thor’s treasure trail. 

He dropped the foot that left smudges of dirt across his mouth and shuffled closer, on his knees, reaching out for it. Thor gripped him by his hair, pushed hoppy thumbs into his mouth. He let Peter take control of his throbbing dick, making pleased groans when the kid played with his foreskin a while, was dazzled by the slow, soppy drag of it back and forth. 

Every time it peeled away from the head, it revealed speckling of ripe, stodgy smegma, clinging to crevices and stuck under ridges. The filth coated his cockhead in a thin film, then caked under the flare of his head. It reeked, tangy and heady and manly, and Peter gently lipped at it as he breathed the raunch in. 

His cock could smell like this, if he let it. He had before. But society dictated that teenagers should feel shame for that, that his changing body should be plucked and scrubbed and scalded to the point of blank sanitation, like he were a sterilized glove. He wasn’t embarrassed of his puberty. He liked his wiry hairs. He liked his sour smells. He liked his voracious sexuality. And he had a feeling Thor liked it too. Thor wanted him to indulge, to find rapture in his own animal. 

So Peter paid worship. He panted little, humid breaths against this pungent prick. He gave it doting kitten licks, sampling the sordid flavor of it. He painted his lips with the precum, nosed deep into the nest of matted pubes, smothered himself in a set of fat, hanging balls. Thor dripped his pleasure like sticky ambrosia, spinning strings of it across his acolyte’s face. It stuck in his hair, smeared across his cheeks, soaked in his nostrils and tongue. 

Peter shot into his shorts the second he took it all the way in. He twitched and convulsed as he felt the girth of it fill his mouth, stretch his lips, sit heavy on his tongue. He let Thor fuck the pocket of his cheek, wet and with plenty of give. He sank all the way down to the root, swallowed around it, wanted desperately for it to fill his stomach. 

He made lewd, languid noises as he made love to this rank cock. He mewled and whined. He popped off it to slap it, covered in saliva, across his cheeks and chin. He feverishly jacked it with both hands, filling their immediate space with the meaty, squishy sounds of skin against skin. He wanted to take it in his ass, to bare himself to his deity and let it flood his guts with his reward. 

But Thor shot early. Playing with his own nipples and sliding his nose in his own pit, the man grunted and groaned as he shot gouts of spunk all over Peter’s face. It matted his hair. It ran in rivulets down his skin. It stuck his eyes shut and frothed, burbling at his lips. He shook, spilling into his shorts again, almost painful in such a short amount of time, radiating bliss. 

He felt himself be picked up, guided back into the man’s lap by his armpits. That same broad, flat tongue drug across his face again. Lips first so he could breath. Then eyes, cheeks. Thor sealed his entire mouth over Peter’s nose and sucked on it, tongue tickling at his nostrils, spunk soaked breath filtering inside. He pulled off with a pop, rubbed their faces together like dogs, collecting more of his mess in his mustache, sticking their skin together. 

Gooey strings of it drooped between them and Peter paid them little mind as he dove to makeout with this modern God again, swapping the spunk between them, their spit diluting its pungency. It dribbled down their chins, bubbled against their lips, was spat and slobbered and slopped against each other. 

Eventually Peter collapsed, nuzzling his filthy face amongst crusty chest hair, clinging to this man in the bar. Thor held him tight, hummed a little song to him as he gave in to his exhaustion. Enlightenment. Fulfillment. Rapture. Peter found purpose, in the arms of Thor. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, want more, want to request stuff of your own, I'm @DirtcoreD over on twitter and basically use that as my base of operations. Come hang out!


End file.
